The day isn't over. Not even close.
But there's no way… no way I'm surviving the rest of it.
Every hallway feels like a lesson I failed.
Every face a syllabus I can't follow.
Today's supposed to be the good day.
The big‑smile, future‑unlocked, pick‑any‑path‑you‑want day.
Instead I'm walking. Quiet. Head down.
Like if I move slowly enough, the world won't notice I'm still here.
Into the locker rooms.
Empty.
Echoes waiting to happen.
The air tastes like metal and old sweat and something else—surrender, maybe.
I stop between the benches.
Drop my bag.
Hear the hollow thud it makes.
And that's where it hits me:
this is what it looks like when a day dies before the sun does.
Shirt glued to my skin. Egg stiffening across my back, cracking every time I move. Little flakes drifting off me like disgusting snow.
Every sound I make—breath, swallow, the tiny crackle of dried yolk on my neck—bounces off the tile and slams back louder.
Like the room wants to remind me what I am.
There's a mirror above the sinks.
I glance up—
freeze.
Not me. Not Simon Spungler. Some other person. Someone with spiked hair glued into jagged points.
Eyes wide. Blank. Vulnerable.
I step closer.
Sticky warmth clings across my back. Egg. Yolk. Faintly sweet, faintly rotten. But from here, from this small distance, I can't see it. Can't see the mess I am.
And the face in the mirror—my face?—doesn't even recognise me.
I stare.
A stranger looking back.
And I think: maybe I don't exist anymore.
The reflection blinks. I blink.
The stranger flinches, just like I do.
I don't know who he is.
I don't know who I am.
Only that he's me, and he's not.
No—this guy looks… sharper.
Cooler. Like every spike of dried yolk in my hair is actually styled.
On him, the mess looks intentional. Punk. Reckless. Alive.
I blink.
He blinks.
But his timing's too perfect, like he meant to do it first.
I swallow. Mouth dry. Tongue knotted. Hands shaking.
That frantic pounding under my sternum, desperate to break free.
I take a step back.
He doesn't. He just exists there, perfect, terrifying.
And I remember—I can't do this with anyone.
Not in class. Not in hallways. Not with pretty girls.
Mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Butterflies shredding my stomach from the inside.
The smell hits hard. Thick. Sticky. Clinging to my hair.
Egg. Raw. Warm. Curling under my nose, clawing at my lungs.
Cough. Hack. Gag. Fists smash the bench.
Body folds forward. Spine curves. Head dips.
And the crown doesn't fall.
Yolk‑glued spikes pressing down. Neck bent. Weight dragging.
A stupid royal burden I never ask for.
For one second—twisted as it is—I feel… lighter.
Because something else threads through the stink.
Soft. Veiled. Clinging.
A trace of something alive, moving, watching.
It settles at the back of my throat, coiling under my chest.
Sharp enough to cut the panic. Thin enough to tease calm.
Locker room empty. Sports students in the gym. No one sees me. Just echoes. Egg drying on my skin.
I move toward the showers. Tiles cold, bright, too honest.
Freeze.
I don't undress in front of anyone. Not teammates. Not strangers. Not even shadows.
Because naked isn't just skin.
Naked is evidence.
Knobbly ribs. Pale stomach. Every bone that shouldn't show but does. Every flaw with its own spotlight.
My body feels… unfinished.
Like someone stopped sculpting halfway.
Like I'm a draft no one should read.
Hands twitch at my shirt. Egg cracks. Feels like peeling off armour that never worked anyway.
Bare means exposed.
Exposed means judged.
Judged means crushed.
I reach for the handle. Cold metal bites my palm.
Twist. Click. Water hammers out—ice.
Shock. Cold water. Eggs writhing like small, warm snakes.
Head leaned far under the stream. Shirt still soaked with yolk inside. Pants untouched.
Scrub, press, work through the hair. Warm yolk clinging, stiff and sticky.
Crown pressing. Spine humming.
Puddle reflects a boy I almost recognise. Almost.
Hair dripping. Cold lines crawling down his spine.
He grabs the scratchy locker‑room paper towels and scrubs—hard—like he's trying to erase a version of himself.
Then coat. Hood. Escape.
Head down.
I'm skipping the rest of the day.
Let the whole campus keep spinning without me.
I'm done being the exhibit.
I move—fast, small, quiet—
Eyes on the floor, mind already halfway home.
And then I hit something warm.
Not a wall.
Not a door.
Someone.
The jolt goes straight through my ribs.
I stumble back, breath crushed out of me.
Avery.
Standing there. In the locker room.
Alone. Like she spawned out of the steam.
No smirk. No teeth.
Just… watching me.
Her eyes flick over the hood, the coat, the wet hair dripping down my collar.
The mess of me.
All of it.
"…Simon."
Slow. Deliberate. Like she's tasting it. Like it belongs to her.
"Simon… it's okay."
"Simon… breathe."
Her words crawl along my spine. Wrap around my throat. Tighten. Silk I can't untangle. Don't want to. Can't.
Why is she here? She could have seen me naked… exposed…
A men's changing room is supposed to be a sanctuary.
A place safe from females.
And she… broke the barrier.
She could've seen everything I hide, every angle I avoid looking at, every part of me I pretend isn't real.
My brain sprints. Trips. Faceplants.
Panic hits like a sudden drop in an elevator—no warning, just weightlessness and then slam.
Avery doesn't move.
Doesn't blink.
She just breathes in the space where I used to feel safe.
Her shoes on tile. Her shadow stitching itself into mine. Her presence filling the room like steam, like pressure, like a secret I never agree to share.
The locker room is supposed to be the one place I get to collapse.
To come apart quietly.
To be a mess without witnesses.
But she's here, and the rules don't matter anymore.
Her gaze slides down me: hood, coat, dripping hair, the stiff patches of egg clinging like shame fossils.
She sees everything the mirror‑stranger saw.
But on her, the look isn't judgement.
It's interest. Curiosity sharpened to a blade.
"...Simon," she says again, softer this time.
Like she's checking where I bruise most easily.
Something in my ribs tightens.
Something hot.
Unwelcome.
Automatic.
I can't breathe.
Air scratches down my throat like sandpaper.
My mouth opens before I'm ready"…w‑why… why are you here?"
"I've got… lots of maths homework, Simon…"
The kicking.
The stabbing.
The eggs.
Everything stacks up inside me, a weight pressing down my chest.
I swear, if she says my name one more time I'm going to break.
"Algebra. Logarithms. Fractions. Trig… argh… I know you love this stuff."
A tiny, almost shy smile. "I just want to hang out with the girls tonight. Not sit here. Not do this."
She steps closer. Voice drops to a whisper that still fills the room.
"Since you're stupid‑smart, Simon… I was hoping you would do it. For me."
The worksheets appear in her hand like magic. Clean. White. Perfect.
She holds them out—not a command, a question wrapped in velvet.
I stare at the papers. My hands stay at my sides. They should stay there.
But they don't. One traitor hand lifts, trembling, dripping egg water onto the floor. Fingers close around the stack.
She doesn't need to smile wider. The corner of her mouth lifts half a millimetre. Enough.
"Thank you, Simon."
The door clicks shut behind her.
I'm alone again, sitting in the puddle. Coat soaked. Hair dripping. Holding her homework like it's the only thing left that's still warm.
I hate her.
I hate the way my fingers tighten on the pages instead of tearing them.
I lift the top sheet. My hands flex—one sharp tug and it would rip clean down the middle. I want to. I should.
But instead… I bring the paper to my face. One small, shameful sniff.
Clean paper. A trace of her perfume—vanilla, warm skin, and the ghost of egg still drying on my fingers.
My eyes close. I hate myself for it.
I press the sheet closer. And I do it again.
Second sniff. Deeper. Longer.